CHAPTER SIX SAWYER
C HAPTER S IX
SAWYER
Roarick: Annalisa and Simon were on Good Morning Malibu this morning. The tears she shed could have filled a glass.
Sawyer: Seriously? It’s been a week. Shouldn’t this be over?
Roarick: Dude, this will be going on forever if Annalisa has her say, but Noely and Dylan, the news anchors, were not buying it.
You could see the skepticism on their faces.
They said they were fans of your work and Noely started to ask if you guys were dating beforehand, but before she could finish, Annalisa let out this huge sob and walked off the set, saying she couldn’t talk about it anymore.
Sawyer: Remind me to send flowers to Noely and Dylan.
Roarick: Might be smart. Noely was all over the internet a few years ago—she’s the one that found love on that blind date app, Going in Blind, remember that?
Sawyer: I can barely remember my fucking ATM pin at this point.
Roarick: No shit, look it up, could be a good article of inspiration.
Sawyer: I’ll pass.
Roarick: Oh really ... so then, any billion-dollar movie ideas come to mind?
Sawyer: No, and you texting every day about it is not helping.
Roarick: Just making sure you’re staying on task.
Sawyer: Not necessary.
I set my phone down on the overgrown grass next to me and stare out at the lake—far away from the ducks. The pines and Douglas firs lining the shore reflect off the surface of the lake, blocking my view of the clear mountain water.
I can’t remember the last time I just sat somewhere and took a moment to think, to soak up the silence, other than the odd distant car that drives by or the laughter of a child.
It’s as if I’ve pressed pause on my life and everything else is swirling around me, moving along, but I’m at a standstill, observing.
If I weren’t being bombarded with emails asking about the “run-out,” then it would almost feel like the days before I sold my first screenplay. Before I met Annalisa.
My phone buzzes again. Well... at least I had some peace, for a second.
Roarick: Have you seen Jaz again? Did she mention me?
Jesus Christ. Doesn’t he know I am trying to be one with nature?
Sawyer: No and ... get a life, man. You met her for a second.
Roarick: Have you ever heard of love at first sight?
Sawyer: Doesn’t exist, doesn’t work well as a plot point either. You’re better off with unrequited love.
Roarick: Love at first sight does exist. I swear, when I saw her, I felt my heart skip a beat in my chest. Hey, use that as a line in your next screenplay.
Sawyer: Too cheesy. Also, you’re not experiencing love at first sight. It’s lust.
Roarick: Maybe a little of both. I still can’t believe you didn’t let me go home with her.
Sawyer: Dude, she is *insane*. I told you that. She breeds the kind of crazy you want to stay far, far away from.
Roarick: You’re just saying that because she doesn’t like you.
Sawyer: No, I’m saying that because I saw her pick her teeth with a switchblade at the bar, which screams “crazy.”
Roarick: Crazy hot.
Sawyer: You need help.
I set my phone back down and stare out at the lake, trying to understand why it’s called Strawberry Lake.
By no means is it shaped like a strawberry, nor are there any strawberries in the area.
I know because I’ve walked its perimeter at least half a dozen times by now.
And it’s not red, not red at all; there are no strawberries, not even a hint of a bush, so frankly, it’s very—
“Who sits on the grass when they could sit on a bench?” a gruff voice says behind me, jerking me from my thoughts and startling me where I sit. “Christ, you look like a flea jumping in dog’s fur like that.”
“Sorry,” I say, turning around. An elderly man stands over me, a sprinkle of white hair on the top of his head, little strands that waffle with the breeze.
Deep-set wrinkles line his forehead and run along his mouth and the corners of his eyes, forming the perfect frown.
A frown that is currently aimed in my direction. “You startled me.”
He gestures toward me. “Serves you right for diddly dawdling on your phone when you have a perfect view of a lake in front of you. Kids today don’t understand when the best things are right in front of them.
” His checkered button-up shirt is tucked into high-waisted jeans that reach past his belly button, held strategically up by two-inch-thick red suspenders, offering him a decent set of high-waters.
His white tube socks reflect brightly in the early-morning light, and his worn black rubber-bottomed shoes create a stark contrast. He’s the ultimate grouch, a side character in a movie whom you can’t help but love because you know a heart beats behind all that annoyance.
“I was actually just contemplating why they call it Strawberry Lake. Do you have any clue?”
“Because, you jack wagon, this damn place used to be full of strawberries before humans came and civilized it.” Jack wagon, huh? Don’t hear that insult too often. I make a mental note to use it in a script.
“Oh, well, that makes sense.”
“Of course it does.” He gestures to the bench that I didn’t bother sitting on.
One side is laid out completely on the grass, broken and dilapidated.
The other side still stands, but it’s splintered and barely holding up the length of wood it offers as a precarious seat.
Weathered, sun-soaked wood—it’s seen better days. “How did you break this?”
Break it? Me? Dude, that’s been broken for a while.
“I didn’t break it—it was already like that.”
“Bullshit.” He kicks the dilapidated bench seat. “I walked by this bench this morning, and it was fine. So, what were you doing? Jumping around on it like an idiot?”
“No, sir, it was broken when I got here,” I say, confused.
He holds his shaky finger up to me. “Don’t toy with me, boy. This bench was perfectly fine. I sat on it just yesterday with my best girl, Joan, while we stared out at the lake. And now I find you here, and it’s broken.”
I glance down at the weathered wood, which has clearly been broken for years. I glance back up at him... and then it hits me.
The sign in the lobby.
Please be patient and kind while we navigate through renovations and his care. Thank you.
This must be Sully.
Treading carefully, I say, “You know what, you’re right. I broke it.” I pat my flat stomach while standing. “Too many beers last night. If you direct me to the right place, I’d be more than happy to fix it myself.”
“Damn right you will,” he says. He lifts his hand and points to the east. “Village Hardware is just down the road. Tools are in the shed back there.” He gestures to a peeling shed that’s nearly invisible behind an overgrown rhododendron. “I expect this bench to be fixed by tonight. Understood?”
I salute him. “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on it.” I pocket my phone, and we part ways as I go back to the shed, to assess the kind of tools we’re working with here.
Before I made it big as a screenwriter, I moved to LA and worked a few odd jobs until I met Harmer, a genius contractor.
He took me under his wing and taught me everything he knew about construction, and together, we’d renovate houses around Hollywood.
It paid the bills and gave me enough so I could start saving up, just in case the screenwriter thing didn’t work out.
I even met Simon through Harmer. We’d lament about the show business world while hammering nails by hand.
Then I met Andy at the coffeehouse... and everything changed.
But I’ve kept the skills close to my heart, enough that I have my own setup at my parents’ house, and whenever I need a break from LA, I pack up and go to the vineyard in Palm Springs to work on the old kayak I’ve been attempting to build for a few years now.
Mom and Dad never touch it, though Roarick will send me the occasional selfie standing next to it and holding a saw, but every time I go back home, I construct a small piece of it here and there.
Someday the kayak will have its maiden voyage, but until then, I can at least fix the bench.
I pop open the old shed’s rusted-out door and run straight into a spiderweb when I step inside.
“Fuck,” I mutter, swatting at the air. With no light in sight, I take my phone from my pocket and turn it on, illuminating the dark space, finding only a small toolbox in the right corner, a few piles of wood, and a very old, rusted saw.
Huh.
With my foot, I flip open the toolbox and bend down to examine it. A hammer that’s missing the actual hammer part, one Phillips-head screwdriver, and a few nails.
Well, this won’t do.
We’re going to need to update this toolbox.
I leave the shed and look back at the main lobby. I recall Fallon doing some wallpapering—maybe she has some tools. Then again, from her prickly attitude, I can tell there’s no way in hell she’s going to let me fix any benches.
She has too much pride and too much disdain for me.
No, this is a task that’s best accomplished alone. Unannounced.
Resolved to keep Fallon out of this, I head down the road to Village Hardware.
A few tools are all I need.
Fixing the bench will give me something to do and possibly help alleviate any stress Sully might feel over seeing his bench, his and Joan’s special spot, fall apart.
I don’t know much about Alzheimer’s, but I can’t imagine the unsettling feeling he must have when something familiar isn’t the way he remembers.
The walk to the hardware store isn’t very far at all, just down the street, past the Strawberry Fields Diner and the Whistling Kettle—both places I haven’t visited yet. Since I picked up groceries at the Pine Pantry, I haven’t needed to go out for provisions.
But I’m sure the microwaved grilled cheese sandwiches I’ve been making myself are going to get old pretty quickly.